Read Online The Winter Garden Mystery by Carola Dunn - Free Book Online Page B

trotting to keep up with her swift stride. “That must be what the police were doing at the smithy when I passed—telling her father. The way he was carrying on, I thought Mummy had sent them round again. I must say he sounded livid with rage, not grief, but that’s the way Stan Moss reacts to everything.”
    As they came to the end of the walk and were about to turn right into the knot garden, a policeman appeared from the left, around the corner of the Winter Garden wall.
    All three stopped abruptly. Bobbie clutched Daisy’s arm.
    Saluting, the policeman looked interrogatively from one to the other. “Miss Dalrymple?”
    â€œI’m Miss Dalrymple. This is Miss Parslow, who lives here. You must be the sergeant Inspector Dunnett said would take my statement?”
    â€œThat’s it, miss. Sergeant Shaw. I’ve been taking statements from the gardeners. If I might ’ave a word with you now, miss, and I’ll be needing to see the secretary gentleman.”
    â€œI’ll find him for you. Daisy, tell Moody to show you to the Red Saloon.” With that, Bobbie hurried on towards the house.
    Daisy and the sergeant followed more slowly. He was a heavyset man, though not as stout as Alec’s sergeant, Tring, but Tom Tring walked as soft-footed as a cat whereas Sergeant Shaw lumbered along at Daisy’s side like a hippopotamus. On the other hand, Shaw’s uniform was a definite improvement over Tring’s deplorable taste in loud checks.

    Daisy liked Tom Tring, and she was prepared to like Sergeant Shaw, despite his charmless superior. At least he began on a more amiable note than Inspector Dunnett.
    â€œNasty business, this, miss. Murder’s bad enough, but murdering young girls is what I don’t ’old with.”
    â€œIt was murder, then?”
    â€œLooks like it, miss. Dr. Sedgwick says she were ‘it on the ’ead with a blunt instrument. ‘It from be’ind ‘ard enough to crush ’er skull.”
    Daisy shuddered, feeling sick. “She would have died at once?”
    â€œDied instant, miss. Never knew a thing.”
    â€œI’m glad.” At least not buried alive, thank heaven. One nightmare receded.
    â€œIt’s that young furriner I’m sorry for, miss.”
    â€œForeigner?”
    â€œThe gardener, Owen Morgan. It’s knocked ‘im for six all right. Seems ’e was walking out with ‘er.” Sergeant Shaw puffed up the steps to the terrace. “’Course, it could be they ‘as a tiff and ’e up and biffs ’er one.”
    â€œSurely not!” Her heart sank. From the first she had felt a deep sympathy for the unhappy Welshman. “He was fearfully upset when he found her.”
    â€œWell, ‘e would be, miss, wouldn’t ’e, ‘aving to dig ’er up and all. Stands to reason. There’s more murders is done for love nor money, mark my words, miss.”
    Moody awaited them, and directed them to the Red Saloon with an air of such reproachful despair that Daisy actually felt guilty. By now all the servants must know what had happened. Moody, like Lady Valeria, seemed to hold her responsible. She hoped the rest of the staff were more reasonable.
    As a change from panelling, the small room was papered in a dark red, with a thin gold stripe that did nothing to lessen the oppressive feel. Over the mantelpiece hung a grim Victorian painting of a battle scene dripping with gore. Daisy hurriedly turned her back on it.

    Bobbie must have chosen the room because of the convenience for the policeman of the elegant antique writing-table under the window—if, indeed, she had been compos mentis enough at that moment for a logical choice, which Daisy wasn’t at all sure of.
    Suddenly weary, she sank onto the chair Sergeant Shaw placed by the desk for her.
    â€œYou won’t mind if I takes the weight off me feet, miss? It’s easier for writing.” Sitting